


Grimoire

by hawkeish



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fade to Black, Flirting, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Love, October Prompt Challenge, One Shot, how do you tag please someone help me, nsfw-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26995489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeish/pseuds/hawkeish
Summary: In which Hawke borrows Anders' spellbook, because she's a nosy, horny fool.Written for the OTPtober day 16 prompt 'blushing' & loosely based on some party banter that I swear exists but now can't find.
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke, Anders/Hawke
Comments: 13
Kudos: 32





	Grimoire

**Author's Note:**

> it's not smut but it's essentially all about sex - wasn't sure how to warn/tag. lemme know if you think it needs any other tags!

Anders, it turns out, has a grimoire.

Hawke only knows this because of Merrill. Hawke’s only interested for…reasons.

_“Grimoire,”_ Hawke murmurs to herself, as she flips the worn leather cover, absent-mindedly leafing through the first few pages. A grin tugs at the edges of her lips; the whole thing seems so cliché. So… _mage-y,_ even for Anders, perhaps the proudest mage she knows. “Really, Anders? You can’t just _remember_ how to do spells, like any good apostate?”

Gentle quiet has settled over this secluded part of the Undercity. Out in the clinic proper, Anders is reassuring one of the few patients he has left to see—a pregnant woman, understandably nervous about, well, everything. The evening is slipping into night, though exactly how late it is, Hawke isn’t quite sure: Darktown is suspended in a perpetual twilight, cast in hazy shades of dusk. Gilded shafts of light still splinter through the windows set into the walls high above, though barely. They dazzle on drifting flecks of dust, igniting them like embers.

Wrapping the oat-grey blanket she’s stolen from Anders’ bed around her shoulders, Hawke curls into his chair, balancing the open grimoire on her knees. Her finger dances along the edge of each page as she reads; she chews on her lip, trying to make head or tail of the tome’s scrawled contents. Whether she’ll be able to decipher either his handwriting—which closer resembles the wanderings of an ink-drunk spider across parchment than legible script—or even half of the more complex conjurations in this thing, only the Maker knows.

She’ll know what she’s looking for when she finds it, though. Of this, she’s rather certain.

Even if Hawke can’t read most of it, the grimoire’s diagrams are surprisingly beautiful. Intricate glyphs are etched in graphite, sometimes inked; there’s a whole section filled with delicate anatomical drawings, detailed maps of bone and muscle and nerve. After these, too, there’s a sketched list of rarer herbs and flowers, annotated with their uses and which combinations to avoid.

A warm, honeyed feeling sparks in Hawke’s chest as she traces the outline of the flowers with her fingertip. Anders is flawed, she knows that. She’s not blind. Angry, hasty, too narrow-minded—oh, and possessed. He’s not exactly a paragon of virtue.

But neither is she. Neither is _anyone,_ especially in Kirkwall, probably the murder capital of Thedas _._ And the amount of care he’s put into these sketches—into things he uses to help others without another thought, into something so intertwined with memories of what he must have learnt at the Circle…

“Maker’s breath, woman,” she mutters to herself, slamming the soft, sappy feelings down. “You didn’t steal his big book of magical secrets to simply _fawn_.”

No. Hawke is a woman on a mission. Creasing her brow, she flicks through the thin, yellowing pages. “Sleeping tonic…relief for monthly cramps…ah. Voilá.”

Tucked away towards the back of the grimoire: _Fertility (and associated areas)._

She’s not looking to get pregnant. Andraste’s ass, there’s little she could dream up that could be worse. Marian Hawke, lumped with a bawling, pudgy baby? The thought’s enough to make her gag.

But rumour has it there are certain positions that make sex more…effective. And if there’s stuff about positions, or what to do before or after, it’s not exactly a stretch to imagine there are _other_ things. Associated areas. After all, Merrill, was unmistakably clear about what she’d found.

Devouring Anders’ writing with a newfound passion, Hawke feels a blush creep up neck, across her cheeks, burning the tips of her ears. Is this wrong? This feels slightly wrong. It’s not like they’re not already good at sex. They’re _great_ at sex. They deserve medals, really. Maybe even the keys to the city. They don’t need magic, but Hawke’s never been with another mage. Is it such a sin to want to try—

“Love?” Anders calls from the main room. “That was the last of them. Are you still awake back there?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Hawke hums in reply. Nose still buried in the grimoire, she’s too engrossed in her reading to notice that the door’s sliding open, that his footsteps are growing louder, that his voice sounds clearer than it did barely a second ago. “I’ll just be a minute!”

“Do we have to go to the Hanged Man?” he sighs. “I’ve already lost an ear to the Coterie at cards this week. And I should stay here, just in case—”

“Maker, Anders!” A frown’s puckering Hawke’s brow: there are noticeably fewer drawings in this section, and far too much technical language. None of this is getting her going. But it must be here, somewhere… “Learn to take a break, would you? And if you think I’m missing Varric’s birthday drinks, you’ve more screws loose than I thought.”

A beat passes. Hawke’s finger lands on a subsection labelled _Virility._

“Penises,” she murmurs, with a sly smile. “Wonderful.”

Anders clears his throat.

Hawke jerks her head up, slams the grimoire shut, and shrieks.

Silence, and a perplexed Anders standing straight in front of her, answers. They stare at each other for a second: Hawke’s eyes are wild, whilst Anders looks plainly baffled.

“Is that my...” Gesturing to the book clutched so tightly in her hands that her knuckles are blanching, he frowns. Slowly, though, realisation dawns, and he makes a face that says _of course it is._

“I was just...” Hawke slides the grimoire onto the crowded table beside her. Her cheeks are burning. “Reading?”

“About virility.”

Hawke’s smile is more a grimace. Denial is pointless; he witnessed her exclaim the words _penises_ and _wonderful,_ one after the other. “Perhaps.”

“Is this a…” He waves a hand at himself. “Thinly veiled critique?”

“No! Maker, I—” Hawke springs to her feet, the blanket dropping from where it’s wrapped around her, and takes his shoulders in her hands before she quite knows what she’s doing.  “Anders,” she says, looking him dead in the eye and realising she’s probably flushing a lovely, deep shade of beetroot. “Your penis _is_ wonderful.”

Anders struggles towards a reply, but she’s happy to note he looks quietly pleased with himself. Leaning back against his desk, he places his hands on her hips. “Thank you?”

“You’re very welcome,” Hawke replies, with a huffed laugh.

A grin flickers on Anders’ lips. In the fading light, his eyes and hair and earring are shining golden. “This is all because of Merrill, isn’t it?”

Coy, Hawke shrugs. “Maybe. It seemed unfair that she should get a look whilst I wallow in ignorance. No. Not just unfair. It’s a _travesty_ , Anders.”

One of his hands slips to the small of her back, drawing her closer, whilst with the other, he reaches up and brushes stray hairs from her cheek. His touch sends shivers across her skin.

“You do know,” Anders says, “that the best spells are the ones that aren’t written down, don’t you?”

“Oh, really?” Hawke tangles her fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Desire dances in his gaze; he’s a little flushed now, too, across his cheeks and the tip of his strong, aquiline nose. Softly, she presses a kiss to his stubbled jaw, leaning into him to murmur into his ear. “Well, messere, why don’t you teach me some?”

Pulling away, Anders quirks an eyebrow. “What was it about birthday drinks and loose screws—”

“Education is important,” Hawke breaks in, arching into him. “And I’m a _very_ fast learner.”

Anders laughs. When he kisses her, soft and slow, something inside Hawke sings with want.

They’re more than a little late for the party.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! loved writing this one - I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> I was also wondering whether I should make Anders more sheepish, but I then remembered that this is the man who literally does a dramatic retelling of his sexual fantasies to the whole party at one point and thought 'nah, he's good'


End file.
